


Miscellaneous Stories

by Petronia



Series: Hannibal stories [6]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: #DrunkenKissesChallenge, Breathplay, Canadian Shack, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Hannibal Holiday Exchange, Hannipenguin, Kissing, M/M, Murder Husbands in Space, Post-Season/Series 03, Recipes, Season/Series 02, Tumblr Prompt, i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-16 03:57:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5813086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petronia/pseuds/Petronia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr ask box prompts and miscellanies.</p><p>Chapter 4, "Houses," was written for the #DrunkenKissesChallenge.</p><p>Chapter 8, "Roses," is a ficlet and menu created for the Hannibal Holiday Exchange 2017.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stirfry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q: "I don't know if you take prompts/requests, but if you're ever in need of one: I cannot believe we were deprived of Hannibal and Will cooking what Hannibal thought was Freddie Lounds together in 2x10. If you ever feel inspired, that would be a great missing scene to write! :)"

Will had caught the name of the dish, but not parsed it. He turned the Spanish over in his head as he chopped and sliced per instruction, and Hannibal pulled condiments from the fridge. It wasn’t until the saute pan went on the gas and the tamari bottle on the counter that a picture coalesced. He looked down at the neat piles of julienned hot pepper – tomatoes – potatoes – ginger and onion – pretty pink strips of tenderloin Hannibal had set aside to marinate. For a moment he thought of Chinese restaurants and student kitchens, and not at all of where it had come from.

“Are we making stir fry?” he said. “This is like mushu pork.”

Hannibal paused in motion and looked pained. A vivid memory tugged at Will: he had had that same look in the hospital, when he’d made a grand gesture of bringing chicken soup and Will had called him on it.

Will had thought him easy to tease, back then; all his pretensions were decorative. Will had never accorded them much importance.

“Peruvian cuisine is a fusion, like all New World traditions,” Hannibal said. “There is a vein of Chinese influence.”

“In other words, yes,” said Will.

“It shares no _canonical_ ingredients with mushu pork.”

“Are your recipes always canonical?”

It sounded forward, even as he said it. Hannibal’s expression didn’t perceptibly shift, but something in his eyes grew warm.

“No,” he said.

What lay underneath the fuss had seemed to be kindness: an offer calmly and perpetually extended. Will had liked teasing him. Only just a little, gently – as a reminder that they were known to each other.

It felt no different now. Will dropped his gaze. He caught his own reflection in the knife’s surface, and could not say to himself if the smile on his face were true.

“These are ready when you are,” he said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (My original Tumblr note) As a meta sidebar to this, I’ve always thought that Hannibal picking lomo saltado to make with Will was super adorable, because it sounds exotic but is literally a weekday stir fry that I am 95% sure is the Peruvian equivalent of chicken fried rice or spag bol. Most home recipes you find for it online involve frozen French fries. It’s the sort of suggestion you might get if you emailed Jose Andres in the middle of the night like “if bae showed up with tenderloin and you have no confidence in his cooking skills but you don’t want to make him feel useless but also it needs to sound fancy while not taking 4 hours because date night, what would you make?” #justcannibalthings


	2. Nothing Has Changed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q: [in reference to my facetious comment as to whether Hannibal inherits David Bowie's title] "Title, shmitle - did he inherit any spaceships? And what would be Will's reaction if he did?"

Hannibal was seated at the dining table when Will came in from his swim, reading a sheaf of paper. The particular placidity of his expression stopped Will in his tracks.

“What is it?”

Hannibal laid the papers down and folded his hands over them, carefully. “It appears my uncle has passed away,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Will said, and waited to hear if he was indeed sorry. The paper was cream-coloured and official-looking; a legal-sized padded mailer lay open on the table. Will did not think Hannibal had lawyers or family who knew how to reach him, but if that were a problem it would become apparent in short order.

“He had been ill for some time,” said Hannibal. “There is… an inheritance.”

“I thought the manor was yours,” Will said. It seemed like a sit-down discussion, so he pulled out a chair and sat. “The manor _and_ the title.”

“My uncle styled himself Count,” Hannibal said, “to our mutual benefit, as he took the responsibilities of the title upon himself as well. The manor is not the only part of the estate; some of it cannot be as easily abandoned to proxies.”

“Heirlooms,“ said Will. “Are you talking about visiting your family?”

He didn’t stumble over the word, but it was a near thing. Hannibal looked at him for a long moment, then lay his hand over Will’s on the table.

“You are my family, Will,” he said.

***

Little more was said of the matter, beyond logistics: Chiyoh turned up two weeks later with a 4WD minivan, wearing a shearling flying jacket and looking every inch the dour psychopomp.

“Nothing has changed,” she said. “Your aunt thought it best not to come.”

“As I would expect,” Hannibal said.

“Sign this, please,” said Chiyoh. She looked at Will. “Did Hannibal explain?”

“Not particularly well,” Will said. Chiyoh looked as if she knew what she thought of _that,_ but said nothing and took the paperwork from Hannibal.

She continued to say very little while putting 200 kilometres on the odometer through rolling farmland and forest, which was fine by Will: forced conviviality was a losing proposition around ex-special agent Graham and his uncanny ability to keep things awkward. Hannibal put on a light classical playlist.

Their destination turned out to be a small, private grass airstrip. It was entirely deserted. There was no waiting Learjet, or helicopter, or so much as a light sport glider.

“Nothing has changed,” Hannibal said.

“I’ll wait to make sure,” said Chiyoh. She backed up to the treeline, such that her tires were off the grass entirely, and turned off the ignition.

Will walked with Hannibal out to the middle of the airstrip. “I haven’t asked you many questions,” he said, “but your taste for dramatic secrecy has been known to backfire.”

“Your unasked questions,” Hannibal said, then blinding white light descended and dissolved everything. It was a long moment before the light faded and Will could see again; then he stood very still and _looked_. 

“They have answers,” he said, finally, “that generate more questions – and.”

He heard the note of hysteria in his own voice, as if from a distance. Hannibal came around the central console and wrapped his arms around Will from behind, which helped; it always had. He took Will’s hand and guided it over the glow of a suspended glyph.

“You worry too much, Will,” he said. “Let me show you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my defense, the more the show went on the more it seemed specifically tailored to an ideal audience of one, that one person being David Bowie. Listen to _Outside_ end to end, read the liner notes, watch _The Hunger_ , watch _The Hunger_ ANTHOLOGY TV SHOW, then come back and tell me I'm wrong.


	3. Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q: "I hereby passively prompt you to elaborate on Will calling Hannibal's "Boy" nickname out in smolfic form."

“Why do you call me that?”

“Hmm?” Hannibal cast his mind back over the previous minutes, with difficulty. He hadn’t meant to say anything important. Only endearments. Only—

Will’s lips curved. “I’m not a boy, Hannibal.”

His hand lay, a warm weight, over Hannibal’s bare collarbone.

“I know.” Will’s thumb smoothed absently over the base of his throat, following the path of the jugular. Hannibal resisted the urge to close his eyes. “You never objected.”

“No, I didn’t.” An edge surfaced in Will’s smile, like a slowly turning blade catching the light. “You were saying it to get a rise out of me. So. It would have been counter-productive.”

“You dislike it, then.”

“That’s not what I said.” Will sat up, kneeling over Hannibal. The patio was uncovered: there was only sky above and around him, cloudless today, a dazzling blue void. It dizzied Hannibal to look. _Delightful, unpredictable..._

Will kept his hand where it was.

“I’m curious about what it is _you_ like,” he said. “I’m younger than you, is that it? Not so much that it matters, but you think of me that way. As someone you can – shape. Educate. Indulge.”

“We’ve shaped each other.”

“Hannibal,” Will said, still amused, and bore down – the slightest pressure through his straightened arm; it could have been an accidental shift of weight. For a split second Hannibal could not breathe. Then it passed, and left every nerve in his body alight.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I – suppose. I like to take care of you, Will.”

“Because you know best.”

“Because—”

The pressure was longer this time, no longer accidental. Hannibal inhaled, shakily, when it was over.

(He liked it too much. Enough that he could tell it frightened Will in his stead. Even the incipient thought of it had burned, cold-hot – _with my hands,_ Will had said, and Hannibal had known when the time came he wouldn’t fight or plead, wouldn’t even want it to stop.

But was Will afraid, really? He had promised, hadn’t he?)

His eyes had slid closed despite his efforts. “Because no one else does,” he said, to the shadow that was Will behind the blood-red pulse of his eyelids. “They don’t know how. They don’t know you, even when you let them pretend. I wish... I wish I’d found you earlier.”

“Hannibal,” Will said. He’d gone still.

“If I had always been by your side,” Hannibal said, “if we’d always known each other, it wouldn’t have been so difficult – becoming this. Would it?”

Will stood, abruptly, stepping back before Hannibal could reach for him. Hannibal sat up. His heart thudded, once, at the loss of contact.

“You wouldn’t be the same,” Will said. “You wouldn’t be who you are now at all.”

“I know,” Hannibal said. He held his hand out, and endured the sliver of eternity until Will took it in his.

 


	4. Houses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Hannibal Creative #DrunkenKissesChallenge. Follows directly on [Trifle](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7181567), from Hannibal's POV.

Will refused to lift a finger to help himself, afterward. He kept his eyes shut and made sounds of wordless discontent as Hannibal disentangled them from each other, and laid him back amid the mess of cream and custard so he could go run the shower. 

(Everything had become very sticky.)

Will stayed delightfully limp through their ablutions, barely responding as he was directed.

“Fuck you and your energy,” he mumbled -- or something like -- when Hannibal picked him up, fluffy bath sheet and all. But he didn’t resist; he allowed himself to be carried to bed, and seemed to fall asleep immediately. Naked and loose-limbed, he was the very image of debauched repose, and Hannibal admired him for a few moments, committing him to memory for a future drawing. _Eros resting after his labours, perhaps._

But only for a few moments. 

The full cleanup could wait for morning, but he had to do some preliminary work on the tub. With a shovel.

 

***

 

When Hannibal returned to his bedroom, carrying a serving tray, he found Will awake and watching him through his lashes.

“Is that the white we had with dinner?” he said.

“It’s seltzer,” Hannibal said, “with ice.”

_You’ve had enough for tonight_ went unspoken. Will heard it nonetheless, and seemed to be amused, even as he downed two full glasses in succession. He didn’t insist on the wine, which was just as well: Hannibal found it difficult not to indulge him. He asked for favours so rarely.

His eyes scanned Hannibal’s face, as if there were a design to be found there.

“You didn’t bring me back to my room,” he said.

“Would you like me to?” Hannibal said, casually. He never stepped foot in Will’s room when Will was present.

Will didn’t answer.

In the dim light from the headboard lamps the room seemed to breathe, its glass walls and skylight dissolving, even with the floor-to-ceiling curtains mostly drawn. They were nested amid the fragrant cypresses, shielded from the wind; a clear and moonless sky overhead.

Will set his glass on the wide, curving headboard. He lay down again on his side, facing Hannibal -- close but not touching -- and pulled the fine cotton sheet up over them both. It divided the night into two: the world, and the warm space shared only by Hannibal and Will. 

His beautiful friend, with the river-coloured eyes that saw monsters; that saw everything. His only family, now.

Hannibal had known this place, once, when he and Mischa had stayed awake together in the dark. Where they could whisper secrets to each other and be safe, _safe as houses._

It was a feeling lost so long ago he had not remembered to miss it.

“All your hard work,” Will said, low.

_And this is the reward,_ Hannibal did not think so much as respond, all through his body. Will reached out to him, and then they were kissing: languid, soft kisses, with no intent behind them but the pleasure of each other’s taste and closeness. There was bourbon on Will’s breath, despite his effort at hydration, and a sweetness like that of cream and red fruit.

“I can still feel you inside me,” Will murmured. That was a pleasing secret, and Hannibal kissed him again for it, on the corner of his mouth. “I’m only encouraging you, aren’t I?”

“You mean to,” said Hannibal. “You crave change as I do.”

Will smoothed a hand over Hannibal’s chest, skin to skin. “I think you over-estimate the degree to which that’s true.”

_You’re not meant for idleness,_ Hannibal didn’t say. Nor: _for some time now you have looked only at one monster, and he has no secrets left for you to uncover._ He only kissed Will again and again, so that Will might remember: safe as houses. 

So that he might -- later -- want to find his way back to this place.

 

 

 

 


	5. Askew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q: "How does your favorite character assemble a chair with missing parts? Or a puzzle with missing pieces."

 

The cabin was a 2 ½. There was a kitchenette and a wood stove. There was one furnished bedroom with one queen-sized bed, and the frame was crooked, or the floor was: one lay down and felt liable to slide off feet-first. There was one wooden kitchen chair, and when Will tried to move it the back rail came off, and four splats fell down like jenga sticks. The fifth was missing.

Will had not anticipated any of this. But he knew from crappy apartments and thrifted IKEA. A search of the cabinets turned up a toolbox and power drill, but no band saw.

(That was a stretch. But if it had been Hannibal’s safehouse, there would have been a saw.

If it had been Hannibal’s safehouse, the furniture wouldn’t be IKEA.

Will would have to make do.)

The remaining problem was that Hannibal was currently in the bed. If Hannibal were not in bed, Will could lever the mattress out of the frame and onto the floor. For bonus points, he could take one of the slats off the headboard and use it to fix the chair.

Hannibal hadn’t moved of his own volition in twelve hours. His breathing was steady, and so was his heartbeat, but it was hard to wake him up. Will had looked him over several times and couldn’t find a head wound. He wasn’t feverish. It might have been exhaustion.

Will would have to make do.

None of the firewood was the right size. He went outside to get a branch. He didn’t have to walk far: the trees grew right up to the door.

That was just as well, since snow had obliterated the path up. Visibility was basically zero.

Back in the cabin, next to the stove, Will whittled down the ends of the branch until it fit in the chair back, and reassembled the splats. Then he sharpened the knife, because it needed doing. Then he tried to insert the emergency phone directory under the footboard of the bed  – it was the only paper book in the cabin, and of no use to his particular situation  – but couldn’t lift both the frame and Hannibal enough to make it happen. 

Finally he shed his jacket and sweater and tucked them under the foot of the mattress. He toed off his shoes and climbed into bed, next to Hannibal. 

It was better than before: less obviously askew. But he still felt like he might fall.

“Best I can do,” he told Hannibal, who seemed to sigh and relax in response. It could just have been Will’s imagination.

Will closed his eyes, and held on.

 


	6. Penguin Cam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q: "[SWANNIBAL](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6712675/chapters/15350887) AT THE SOUTH POLE, aka Hannibal is a penguin and Will is an Antarctic researcher."

“Abigail’s stuck again,” said Price. Will paused with one arm of his parka still on.

“It’s Hannibal, isn’t it?”

Price shrugged and tapped the screen.

“Dammit!” Will stalked over. Price rolled his chair back, accommodatingly.

Hannibal’s handsome profile encompassed the entire viewport. He was peering directly into the camera, first with one beady black eye, then the other.

He was the only named (as opposed to numbered) penguin in the creche. Emperors all looked the same, size and girth aside, but there was an ineffable spark in Hannibal’s gaze – of intelligence or malice – that made him somehow easily recognizable. He was also very plump: the researchers found it odd that he hadn’t bred this year. The going theory was that he had lost a mate before they arrived on site. Instead he hung around the creche between fishing trips and appeared to take pleasure in intellectual pursuits, such as figuring out ways to jam the axles of remote-controlled all-terrain mobile penguin cams with rocks.

Will frowned.

“He’s doing it on purpose, I know he is.”

“I thought you said he’d adopted Abigail,” observed Price. “Doesn’t make much sense, does it? He should be trying to _feed_ her.”

“I think he’s figured out she’s a robot.”

“Sure,” said Price. “They all know _something’s_ up. But none of the others try to break the robot. You think we should send out Winston instead?”

Winston was the adult-shaped cam, named after one of Will’s huskies. “That was worse,” Will said. “Hannibal tried to mate with him.”

“No,” Price said, “he tried to give him a dead frozen kestrel. Disturbing as that was, it would be pretty extra mating behaviour. Most of them stick to pebbles.”

Abigail had gotten stuck somewhere away from the main huddle of chicks. “I’ll go out and fix her,” Will said, with little enthusiasm. “Start rolling when I give you the thumbs up.”

“Say hi to Hannibal for me,” said Price. “Maybe he’s saving another dead bird for you!”

Will didn’t bother to flip him the finger.

 


	7. Waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cut scene from [Morning](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8045674). I still like this bit, though.

“Hannibal?”

Will’s voice. Will’s hand on his shoulder.

Hannibal clutched at it – his arms were free – caught Will’s wrist and gripped it as tightly as he could. He wouldn’t let go. He wouldn’t.

“Hey,” said Will. Then, more gently, “it’s all right. It’s all right, I’m here.”

Hannibal blinked up at him. Surroundings returned, with uncharacteristic slowness: he was curled on his side, in bed – their bed. The curve of the boat’s hull against his back, and the rise and fall of the breathing sea.

It was morning.

“You were dreaming,” Will said. His mouth quirked. “I couldn’t tell if it was good.”

He leant over Hannibal, one knee up on the edge of the mattress. His body shadowed Hannibal’s like a canopy.

Hannibal relaxed his grip, but did not let go. Instead he tugged, just because he could, until Will came assenting into his arms. He slid his arms around Will’s back and pulled him close, burying his face against Will’s shirt. It smelled maddeningly of fish and fuel and of Will’s body, as the bed sheets did, and Hannibal himself – as if he, too, were one of Will’s belongings, like his fishing rods or tool box, to be used and tended and set back in its place until it was wanted again.

_“Io venni in loco d’ogne luce muto,”_ he murmured, _“che mugghia come fa mar per tempesta, se da contrari venti è combattuto…”_

“Wind’s pretty good,” Will said. “Don’t jinx it.” His fingers slid into Hannibal’s hair, rubbing little comforting circles into his nape. Hannibal closed his eyes. “Which circle of Hell is that?”

“The second,” Hannibal said. “Reserved for sinners who subordinated reason to lust, and so destroyed themselves.”

Will gave a soft huff of laughter. “That sounds… Catholic.”

“Dante saw Achilles there,” said Hannibal, _“che con amore al fine combatteo…_ but he said nothing of Patroclus.”

Will was silent for a moment. “They wanted to be buried together,” he said, finally. “Dante would have known that.”


	8. Roses: A Christmas Menu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Anarchipelagomanifesto, in the Hannibal Holiday Exchange.

 

The amuse-bouche set the tone for the dinner, and therefore had to dazzle. His desire for flair, Hannibal thought, was not unreasonable.

“Foie gras  _au torchon_  draped in beet jelly,” he announced, setting down the plate. “With beet reduction, sugar chips, and black pepper.”

It was not so simply presented. The foie gras was hidden under the richly translucent jelly, inlaid with the upright, petal-shaped sugar chips. The whole, dusted liberally with spiced beet powder, had the appearence of a single, blood-red Christmas rose. A swirl of reduction over the porcelain suggested the stem, and thorns.

For Will Graham, the thorns were integral.

“I’m not sure I see the black pepper,” Will said. Amusement played at the corners of his mobile mouth, and he hid it behind the the copper mug of sparkling drink Hannibal had made up for him. “It’s beautiful, Hannibal. But you’ve only made one.”

“I thought we could share,” Hannibal said. 

“I suppose we could,” Will said. He pulled one velvety petal off the rose with his fingers, and tapped it against Hannibal’s lower lip. 

Hannibal opened his mouth for it, and took it on his tongue like a communion wafer: a shard of peppery tartness, then the lingering sweet.

 

***

 

The first plate was  _tagliatelle al tartufo:_  homemade egg pasta gilded with butter, over which curled shavings of black truffle. Then came skate wing amandine – they were in the habit of a fish course, so long as it was freshly caught – which Hannibal prepared at table side, filling the room with the fragrance of brown butter, and served with a simple parsnip purée.

“I’ll be too full for the main,” Will warned. He did not have a large appetite, Hannibal had found, though it improved when they lived contentedly, in the fresh air. It only worsened when Will was preoccupied, or in a state of heightened emotion.

In the strange time during which he had lured Hannibal, in Baltimore, he had eaten shockingly little – Hannibal suspected, only when they were together. Hannibal himself had lost all taste for classic dishes and reliable pleasures, no matter the meat that went into their creation. He had craved the fantastical, the rare, and he had wanted to share it with Will.

It had not been possible, for a long time. And then it was again.

“The season is one for indulgence,” he said. “It is not a large portion, though.”

“Only the choice bits,” Will murmured.

It was individual sweetmeat pies, made according to the recipe of a medieval venison stew, such that when the fork broke through the flaky crust, the wine-dark juice steamed as it spilled over the tines. Will found enough space for it, and in his satisfied languor allowed Hannibal to kiss the savour from his lips.

 

***

 

Hannibal had made roses again, for dessert, a plattered profusion of them: rosettes of cardamom-infused puff pastry, inlaid with sheer apple slices, and dusted with caster sugar. Before serving he had planned to scatter them with pomegranate arils, like droplets of blood left by prey on new-fallen snow.

But dessert could wait without harm on the kitchen counter, until they had disentangled – no matter how temporarily – from each other. That, too, Hannibal had accounted for in his dinner plans; it not being the first time by any means.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Photos are from the respective sources listed. 
> 
> Rum and sparkling cider cocktail: <https://blog.westelm.com/2016/12/23/rum-sparkling-cider-cocktail/>
> 
> Foie gras au torchon layered in beet jelly, beet chips, beet powder, and black pepper - a signature dish of Le Sputnik, in Japan. No step by step, of course, but if you happen to be a molecular gastronomist the video on their Web site gives you a solid sense of how it’s done: <http://le-sputnik.jp/index_en.html>
> 
> Tagliatelle al tartufo: <https://www.chowhound.com/recipes/black-truffles-over-fresh-pasta-29312>
> 
> Skate wing amandine with brown butter and parsnip purée: <http://www.foodandwine.com/recipes/pan-fried-skate-brown-butter-and-parsnip-puree>
> 
> Venison sweetmeat pie with cranberries and chutney: <http://www.spinneys-dubai.com/recipe-page/venison-sweetmeat-pies>
> 
> Apple cardamom rosettes with pomegranate garnish - put it through Google Translate. I have the cookbook and recommend it highly for anyone who’s loaded down with apples in the autumn: <http://fr.chatelaine.com/recettes/desserts/rosettes-de-pommes-de-louis-francois-marcotte/>


End file.
